Pensieve
by freakgirl1
Summary: Harry gets an unexpected peek into Hermione's thoughts, and is stumped by what he sees.


Pensieve  
  
A Harry/Hermione fan fiction  
  
The silver light danced across the shadowy ceiling, contrasting so strongly against it that it was impossible for him to ignore. It glistened and swam in the way that had always fascinated him; he'd never been able to resist its silent call. He was too curious a person to just walk away, even if he knew the reparations his curiosity would cause.  
  
Harry had only come into the Head Girl's private bedroom to retrieve a book of his. The reflection on the ceiling had captured his attention like it had on two occasions before, and he'd instantly recognised it.  
  
He now stood over the Pensieve. It was held in an engraved stone dish, like the one Dumbledore had owned. But unlike Dumbledore's, the stone was new and smooth; the carvings were fresh, the edges sharp and clean. The Pensieve itself was different too; it still glistened and moved ceaselessly like no other substance Harry had seen before, but the silver of it was stronger, brighter, younger. Its brilliance was enough to light up Harry's face as he stared, hypnotised, down. These thoughts moved - or rather, swam - more energetically than his old Headmaster's too. They darted through each other in schools; they circled and dived, they rose and turned backwards, flitting around in a random, yet perfect dance.  
  
"Hermione never told me she had a Pensieve," Harry whispered to the surface of her swirling thoughts. He himself had wished many times that he'd owned one of these astonishing dishes. To take his tangled thoughts out of his head, and make sense of them at his leisure with a clear mind.  
  
Harry quickly looked at the doorway to make sure he was alone, and then muttered a spell to make the door swing shut.  
  
Harry knelt in front of Hermione's little bedside table so his face was hovering right over the Pensieve. He took a deep breath, steeling himself to do something. But what? He didn't know himself. He couldn't possibly be thinking of looking into the private thoughts of the girl - woman - who had been his best friend for six and a half years, could he? Hermione was more like his sister than his friend, and they trusted each other ... Harry couldn't betray that, it'd be like reading her diary...  
  
He snatched away the hand that had stretched out to the silver mass of its own accord. He would not pry.  
  
But as Harry moved to leave he noticed the surface of the Pensieve had become calm and smooth. A picture was rising to the surface, a memory. The Pensieve must have felt his train of thought, because the picture shining up at him was of the night that had been the beginning of his and Hermione's friendship.  
  
Harry watched, frozen to the spot, as he watched his small, eleven-year-old self charged into the girls' bathroom to battle a fully-grown Mountain Troll to save the tiny Hermione, cowering in a corner. Harry grinned; it was amazing to think they'd been so little... the memory faded as an unrecognisable Ron pointed his wand up at the furious Troll.  
  
The next scene wasn't one Harry remembered. Hermione, looking even smaller than she had in the last memory, was sitting cross-legged on the carpeted floor of her bedroom. One wall was taken up with a bookcase stuffed full of books way too fat for an ordinary ten-year-old; against the next wall was a writing desk scattered with pads of paper, rolls of parchment, pens, quills, and bottles of ink. Above the desk was a square window that had been thrown open. Behind Hermione was a single bed with a small set of black Hogwarts robes laid out on it.  
  
The floor in front of the small Hermione was piled with more huge books. Books of spells, of magical theory, books of potions, of magical history and more. The little girl was frantically turning page after page of a book in her lap; reading at triple speed.  
  
The door opened silently and a head of brown hair similar to Hermione's peeked through.  
  
"Come on sweetheart, have a break aye? You've been barricaded in here for days. There's a fair on in town, we could go to that if you wanted."  
  
Hermione didn't look up but kept skimming through the thick pages as she replied. "I have to learn all this Mum. Everyone else will know it," she sounded desperate, "I don't want them to laugh at me because I'm different."  
  
She looked up at her mother with big brown eyes, "I want to have friends at this school, Mum."  
  
Harry shivered as this scene too, faded. He had been so horrible to Hermione at the beginning of first year. But she had been having the same doubts and fears as he had. Harry had been so close-minded...  
  
The next memory swam into view. They were now back at Hogwarts, and in what appeared to be their second year. Malfoy was glaring at Hermione.  
  
"...you filthy little Mublood."  
  
Harry felt Hermione's emotions; even though she didn't understand the insult, she felt the hate and prejudice behind it. Hermione hated being treated differently, she hated the way people were looking at her, whether it was in spite or pity. She felt like a brick had hit her in the stomach and wanted to run away and cry somewhere ... but she wasn't going to show anyone how she felt.  
  
Harry was shocked. He'd admired Hermione for her strength during that incident, and he'd never imagined Hermione had been hurting so badly inside.  
  
Suddenly a great loneliness engulfed Harry. He didn't understand the reason for it until Hermione's next memory appeared.  
  
She was, unmistakably, inside Hagrid's hut. It took Harry's eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness and distinguish the figures from the shadows. His heart lurched; Hermione was sobbing into Hagrid's moleskin waistcoat. His giant hand patted her back with uncharacteristic gentleness.  
  
"R-Ron h-hates me," Hermione's voice was high and slightly muffled. "And if Ron hates m-me H-Harry does too." She sobbed loudly, "He's always l-liked Ron more than m-me, and always w-will."  
  
Harry didn't want to watch this; Hermione was suffering because of Ron's and his selfish stubbornness. But he'd never hated her - not for one second...  
  
Hermione was still sobbing incoherently about Harry hating her, Hagrid comforting her. Harry was suddenly hit by the fact that Hermione was crying over just him ... not Ron. Strange. But maybe he'd just come in on the tail end of the memory...   
  
As Harry's attention waned, a new picture appeared. It was still dark, but he was no longer in Hagrid's hut. Hermione's and his wands lit the inside of the Shrieking Shack. Hermione, who he felt was terrified, gripped tightly onto his Pensieve-self's arm. The memory faded as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Harry confused at its significance.  
  
Now Hermione was sitting in an empty dormitory that was flooded with wintry sunlight. A light blue dress robe lay on her bed, contrasting strongly against the scarlet bedspread. Hermione was facing a large mirror, brushing her brown hair that was unusually sleek and smooth; she looked stressed and kept checking her watch. She finally threw the brush aside and waved her wand, muttering a spell.  
  
Makeup began to magically apply itself to Hermione's face as she watched in the mirror.  
  
"He'd better notice me," she said to her reflection, "I can be pretty too." She closed her eyes and a brush started to make long sweeps over her eyelids. Hermione sighed, "He solves mysteries, defeats evil wizards, but can't notice something right in front of him..."  
  
Harry's breath had become uneven. Was Hermione talking about him, her best friend? But she'd gone to the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum ... Harry was confused, disbelieving, he blocked out what his brain was trying to tell him. The Pensieve was sending him a message...  
  
Next it was dark again. Harry was looking down from a great height. People around him were yelling and running - panicking. Suddenly he realized; this was the Third Task. He was looking down onto the gigantic maze, and judging by the turmoil in the stands, Cedric and himself had just disappeared.  
  
And there was Hermione. She was sitting between Ginny and Ron. Ginny was gripping onto Bill who sat on her other side and asking, "What's happening?" in a small voice.  
  
Ron was on his feet and bellowing at no one in particular, "Where'd they go? Where the hell did they go? That's not supposed to happen is it?!"  
  
Harry's heart lurched again as he looked back at Hermione. She was huddled into the back of the bench, her arms over her face and her hands gripping onto her hair. She was shaking violently. Beneath her arms Hermione's eyes were screwed tightly shut and her lips were moving ceaselessly in silent prayer.  
  
She looked so small and vulnerable, that Harry wanted to take her in his arms and reassure her, but he couldn't. He felt so guilty that he was the one to cause her this terrible torment.  
  
As Hermione's lonely, huddled form faded into the darkness Harry realised that his cheeks were wet, but he didn't dry the tears.  
  
The Pensieve gave Harry a second to recover before the next memory swam to the surface. This was one that he remembered oh too well. He watched himself stumble into the Gryffindor common room. Harry groaned; he didn't want to be reminded of what had just taken place.  
  
"Is it Cho?" Hermione was asking, Harry hadn't noticed it at the time, but she sounded rather disapproving, almost hostile. Harry was puzzled; she usually supported him on stuff like this.  
  
"Did you kiss?" Hermione interrupted his thoughts, sounding as though she didn't really want to the answer to her question.  
  
"Well?" Ron demanded.  
  
Hermione was frowning ... why was she frowning?  
  
The scene changed abruptly. Harry was now looking at his fifteen-year-old self as he said, "But I don't think you're ugly."  
  
Now they were in the Forbidden Forest and Harry was standing protectively in front of Hermione.  
  
Sixth year: Hermione crying in his arms after Ginny died; Hermione screaming at him across the common room saying she wouldn't let him face Voldemort alone. Harry's shoulders shook with emotion as these last images flashed past.  
  
Hermione sobbed in his arms, holding onto him as if her very life depended on it after they had finally defeated Voldemort. She was shaking uncontrollably and Harry held her close as they both grieved for everything they had ever lost, kneeling in the ruins of the Ministry of Magic.  
  
That had only been two months ago, and Harry still felt hollow and raw inside from it. Dumbledore had died, Tonks had died, Percy had died, but he and Hermione had lived, and walked away. Ron hadn't been quite so lucky, but he had finally come out of his coma a week ago and the Heelers had promised they could visit soon.  
  
Harry's hand went to his forehead, as it always did when he relived that night. He clutched at the skin where his trademark scar had once resided. Thinking that the Pensieve's painful slideshow was over, Harry let himself slide to the red carpet. His cheeks were wet again. He hated the pensive for showing him into Hermione's thoughts and fears. Hermione had always been a constant for him - always there and always strong. Now he'd seen that she wasn't really as fearless as he'd believed - or perhaps, pretended - Harry felt weak and alone; Hermione had been holding him up.  
  
Before Harry could totally break down under the weight of emotion pressing down on him, he heard a giggle. His head jerked up to find the Pensieve was once again showing a memory; but this one was slightly blurred, as though slightly out of focus...  
  
Hermione giggled again, "Where are you taking me, Harry?"  
  
Harry squinted down. It was a bright summers day, the grass was a lush, bright green and the lake glistened and danced in the bright sunshine. Harry watched himself - his strapping, seventeen-year-old self, lead a happy, gorgeous Hermione by the hand across the lawn, to the shade of a Weeping Willow.  
  
The Harry in the bedroom frowned; he didn't remember this ... how could Hermione remember something that had never happened?  
  
The Harry in the in the Pensieve had stopped under the willow, and taken Hermione's other hand in his. She looked dreamily up at him.  
  
"I've never been very good at speeches, but here goes," the hazy Harry grinned down at his best friend. "I've known you for nearly seven years - the best seven years of my life... but if it wasn't for you I might not made it through, in more than one sense. You've always been there for me, even when I didn't want you to be." Hermione smiled. "You've been my best friend, my sister, even my mother over these years, but I've never thanked you, never told you what it means to me, what you mean to me.  
  
The Pensieve Harry bent his head closer to Hermione's; "I've always been a bit slow to pick things like this up, unlike you..." He moved closer and breathed, "you've waited all this time, now I'm going to make it up to you."  
  
Harry felt numb all over. He'd been so blind for so long ... why had he never clicked?  
  
Something stirred deep inside Harry's numb being. Like a worm that had been lying dormant all its life, waking. He hadn't noticed its presence, but it had been there all along, just waiting to be prodded into life. Now it was conscious, there was nothing that would subdue it.  
  
Harry sprang to his feet and ran from the room.   
  
*  
  
Hermione Granger sat by the lake. Her legs were folded under herself, one arm propped her up and the other supported one side of a huge book that rested in her lap. Her long, wavy brown hair moved gracefully in the wind as her deep brown eyes whizzed over the faded text.  
  
Hermione sighed and brushed a stray piece of hair out of her eyes; she just couldn't concentrate today. Her mind kept flicking back to the last day of school, which was looming ever closer. Hermione couldn't bear to leave Hogwarts and face the world beyond. This was where her life was, she had spent the best part of the last seven years here, she had discovered there was a world other than that in books, she had made her first friends, she'd fought unthinkable evil, she'd learnt about goodness ... she'd fallen in love.  
  
Hermione had fallen in love, and had had her heart broken, again and again. Her poor heart had been bashed and battered around by one boy for nearly five years now.  
  
"It's not his fault though," Hermione said aloud. And it wasn't; the boy, who had stolen her heart at such a young age, didn't know he'd done such a thing. He hadn't noticed that his best friend was desperately in love with him, and he'd just carried on hurting her with his ignorance.  
  
Hermione shook her head sharply, to rid it of these foolish thoughts. She was like a lovesick puppy, she told herself, stop bloody obsessing and get over it. It's been far too long. He'll never think of you in that way.  
  
And so Hermione resolved - as she did nearly every day - never to think of Harry Potter as anything other than a friend. Even though she knew it was no use.  
  
Hermione sighed again, raked her hand through her hair and attempted to concentrate on her book once more.  
  
But the perfect silence of the afternoon was shattered almost at once by a resounding call.  
  
"Hermione!"  
  
And there he was, Hermione's heart fluttered as she looked over her shoulder and saw an angel sprinting down the sloping lawn towards her. Harry's unruly hair was tousled from his speed; his cheeks were red and his face shone with sweat. Gorgeous.   
  
Panting, Harry slid to a halt beside her.  
  
"What were you running for?" Hermione asked casually, not showing how excited she felt; she had had a lot of practice at that.  
  
"You," Harry said gruffly, still regaining his breath. Hermione's stomach contracted.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Come with me," Harry smiled his dazzling smile and offered her his hand. Hermione took it and he hoisted her effortlessly to her feet. Hermione reached down for her massive book, but before she could touch it, it had disappeared. She turned back to Harry and raised one eyebrow.   
  
"I returned it to your room," Harry said, grinning as he tucked his wand back inside his robes. "You don't want to carry it on our little walk do you?"  
  
And with that Harry began to lead Hermione around the edge of the lake, by the hand he still held in his own.  
  
Hermione was curious; Harry wasn't usually this spontaneous. Where on earth was he taking her? She voiced her question, but he didn't answer, only squeezed her hand and led her onwards. Not that Hermione was complaining ... Harry very seldom held her hand and her mind was too preoccupied enjoying the tingling sensation his touch caused, to worry about anything else. As usual, she had totally forgotten her vow.  
  
Harry continued to walk around the edge of the lake, until they were almost halfway around. He kept hold of Hermione's hand and constantly looked other his shoulder and urged her on.  
  
Hermione started to giggle; she didn't have any idea why, maybe it was because she still didn't know where they were going; or maybe it was her hormones reacting to the fact Harry was holding her hand so tightly...  
  
"Where are you taking me, Harry?"  
  
"Just come on, we're almost there," Harry grinned back at her and indicated a large Weeping Willow crouched on the bank about fifty yards away.  
  
Once they were standing in its cool shadow, Harry stopped and faced Hermione, smiling gently down at her from his great height. Hermione's heart seemed to be doing a complicated tap-dance against her ribs. Harry reached out his free hand and took hers.  
  
The two best friends looked at each other for a second before Harry spoke.  
  
"You know I've never been good at speeches and stuff, but I've heard this one before, so here goes," he smiled in the way that made Hermione's stomach lurch. "I've know you nearly seven years - the best seven years of my life..."  
  
Hermione couldn't mask her surprise; this couldn't be real - she was dreaming again. She must be.  
  
"But if it wasn't for you, Hermione, I might not have made it through. You've always been there for, even when I didn't want you to be."  
  
This had to be real, Hermione thought numbly; she could feel the breeze on her cheek, the sweat trickling down her neck; the grip of his fingers...  
  
"-my sister, even my mother over these years, but I've never thanked you, never told you what it all means to me, what you mean to me, Hermione."  
  
Harry's beautiful green eyes flickered as he looked as her, moving closer, he inclined his head and whispered.  
  
"I've been an idiot, it's taken me so long to realise how you feel ... and," he moved closer still; Hermione could smell his entrancing scent from here... "I want to make it up to you."  
  
Harry slipped a hand around Hermione's waist and gently pulled her closer to him, he brushed her hair out of her face...  
  
Hermione's emotions were conflicting; her body and most of her brain were screaming for Harry to kiss her - the kiss she'd dreamed of since she was thirteen - but one small voice in the corner of her mind wanted answers; this was too strange to be a coincidence.   
  
The small voice won and Hermione moved away from Harry; his green eyes looked wounded.  
  
"Wha - what are you doing?" Hermione breathed, looking up at him questioningly.  
  
Stupid question Brainbox, her mind congratulated her; now he'll leave and you'll have lost this chance...  
  
But Harry was studying her. His green eyes penetrated hers, reading her emotions. A grin spread across his face and he placed his other hand around her waist too.  
  
"Making your dreams come true."  
  
And he kissed her. He kissed her like she'd never been kissed before, this was better than any dream; this was real.  
  
Hermione moaned; Harry's tongue was amazing, he was amazing, he definitely was a dream come true...  
  
But Harry ended the beautiful, perfect, spine-chilling kiss before he should have. Hermione opened her eyes the leant forwards again, but Harry was speaking, or rather; jabbering.  
  
"I - I saw your Pensieve - I know I shouldn't have - but it told me - I realised I love you and now I know I always have - I'm-"  
  
Hermione smiled and put a finger over his lips.  
  
"Shut up, Harry. I've waited too long for this to just listen to you talk." And with that, she placed her arms around Harry's neck and hungrily met his lips once more.  
  
*  
  
A lopsided figure watched this scene from a safe vantage point higher up the lawn.  
  
Ron Weasley leaned heavily on a sturdy walking stick. He smiled as he gazed down at his two best friends discovering each other in the shadow of the willow, and nodded happily.  
  
He turned and started back up the lawn; he had waited a long time to surprise his friends, but this had been waiting longer. This was like a dream come true. The fairy tale was finally complete, the evil wizard had been defeated and the hero and got his princess.  
  
"And they lived happily ever after," Ron grinned as he limped back to the castle. 


End file.
